People We'd Rather Forget

CHAPTER ONE

Oh No

EVERYTHING SEEMED SMALLER than she remembered.

Back then, the floor had seemed endless, a vast sea of flat blue carpet. But actually, it was maybe only twice the size of her apartment. The space around the television—not the same one that had been here, thankfully—was tiny; the stiff easy chairs crammed into a space about as large as her bedroom. And the long hallway running alongside it was just about three times the width of her body.

Funny how little everything seems once you’ve grown up a bit.

It wasn’t the size, she told herself—she had not changed in size in the past ten years since she’d been here (other than having filled out a bit more); she was no taller at 28 than she had been at 18. It wasn’t like going back to one’s old elementary school and realizing the toilets were only a foot tall and the chairs were as wide as a loaf of bread. That had happened a few years ago, and she had been similarly unprepared for going into the children’s bathroom and realizing there was no way she would be able to use a kindergartener’s toilet.

No, this was a more emotional diminishing: the things that had mattered to her when she had been a student here were gone and no longer held any sway over her. Much of who she had been as a student here was gone, and she was glad for it. It was the only reason she had agreed to take this job, after all, the only reason the dean had been able to persuade her to fill the position. Just for a year, he’d said, and she’d hemmed and hawed with him, never sharing the real reason for her reluctance: that she hated the person she’d been here and didn’t want any reminder of her. Didn’t want anyone around who would still see that in her. But to Dean Somers, she’d only said that she wasn’t sure she was ready to revisit old ghosts.

To which his response had been a reminder that they employed a psychotherapist as a full-time staff member (as if she could forget) and to offer a sizable bonus if she stayed the full year.

And as a secondary school teacher, a sizable bonus was a big incentive.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the memories she’d rather forget that assailed her as soon as she walked in the door. It wasn’t the memory of fighting with her boyfriend or his annoying friend calling her names. Instead, she looked around the TV nook and saw her friends gathered in the chairs watching their favorite show. She looked at the couch by the window and saw them piled onto it, sitting on top of each other and laughing inanely. She looked at the split-level stairs and saw her best friend leaping down them, landing and rolling across the floor.

Maybe her more unpleasant memories—panicking at breaking up with her boyfriend, outraged at his friend, frustrated at her inability to do basic math—Damian—maybe those weren’t stirred up because they had already been revisited and dissected to death over the years. Lord knew she’d been torturing herself with them enough, replaying again and again until she had convinced herself she was the most childish and idiotic person on the planet. She’d discussed it at length with her own therapist before leaving and she’d reminded Clara that she had been an immature kid, just like everyone else, and that she’d dealt with it, and look how far she’d come! Right—so far that she was back in the very same high school that had fostered her anxiety disorder.

But things would be different this time.

She shook her shoulders, steeling herself. She had dressed for success—her favorite dark jeans, purple shirt, and black blazer. Informal teacher chic. The students wouldn’t arrive for another week, so she had time to test out the casual wear, right? She had no idea if the dress code had changed in the past ten years. But she felt comfortable and competent, and that was what mattered.

She strode around the corner to the Residential Life office and its window desk. Just as she remembered it. Here, as she had anticipated, a few memories came to her that she preferred not to think about. She could see so clearly the last person she had seen sitting here, in that black leather chair, day in and day out. The paper cranes on the desk she had given him.

God, what she wouldn’t give to scrub that memory from her head altogether.

She knew she would make new memories this year and they would push out the old ones, but until then, she couldn’t quite erase the image, almost superimposed over her vision. She could even hear his voice saying her name in ways that had thrilled her.

Clara, he’d said, rolling his eyes at her fondly. She closed her eyes, lost to the recollection.

Clara, he’d said gently, care showing when she’d been in the dark place.

Clara. This time said sharply, the way he’d said it later on, after everything had been ruined.

Wait a minute—her eyes snapped open and her heart pounded. No, it couldn’t be—

She turned around slowly, a whooshing in her ears, praying she wasn’t hearing what she thought she was hearing. It wasn’t possible.

But as she turned all the way around, a figure came into focus. It was the shape of him at first, a tall, solid, sturdy-looking body. Then it was the features: a head of messy blond hair, a square jaw. Bright blue eyes, staring right at her.

Oh, no.

She resented the warmth that filled her chest at the sight of Damian. Instinctively, she looked away. That second or so of eye contact was already too much. She focused her gaze instead on his shoulder. She could still see his face, but, just like always, she couldn’t look him in the eyes. Something about his eyes had always been piercing. He had had a way of looking at her intently, kindly, that had made her feel laid bare in front of him, and she had, in the end, decided she couldn’t stand it. But his eyes were still on her, searching her softly like they always had.

She should say something. Her heart pounded. Hi, she said. Her voice cracked.

Hi, he said, much more calmly. She couldn’t tell what was in his voice—was he surprised? Gentle? Nervous? Or maybe she was imagining things?

Damn him. Now she’d have to think of what to say. Everything she was supposed to be doing today had suddenly vanished from her brain at the shock of seeing this man. Couldn’t he at least help her out? Exhaling, she focused on a fold in his green t-shirt on his right shoulder, recalling what she was here for. She needed to get away from here. She wouldn’t freak out in front of him, but as soon as she found her room, she could react as needed (and she still wasn’t sure what that reaction would be).

She nodded to herself and swallowed. I need my room keys, she said, calmer than she felt.

Of course, he said, striding past her to enter the office. She watched his back as he bent over the small rear desk and glanced at a list in front of him, then opened a drawer and grabbed a key on a ring. You’re in 304, he said, straightening and turning and holding them out in front of him. She watched the keys.

When she held out her hand for them, he dropped them into her palm.

Where do I need to… She cleared her throat. What’s the next thing I need to show up for?

Tomorrow, he said. Check your email. You should have invites on your calendar.

She nodded. He was motionless, and she tried not to betray her nervousness. She started to move away, remembered she should maybe say something in closing, but then couldn’t think of anything decent and just walked away.

She would have to go and get her things from her car, but for now, she would just go and check out her minuscule apartment and take a beat.

She got off the elevator on the third floor and, after fitting her key into the lock on door 304, pushed into her apartment. She observed her surroundings, detached; she had only seen teacher accommodations once or twice as a student and barely remembered what they looked like. It was just a small studio, a kitchenette in the corner to her left and a dining table in the back, a door to the bathroom on her right, and beyond, around the corner, was the double bed and large desk. Almost the same furniture as the student rooms, just bigger and with a tiny kitchen. She dropped her duffel on the floor and let out a long breath. The bed was just a few steps away, unmade for now, but she still went to it and sat woodenly.

Now. Now she could have a reaction.

Damian. Damian was here. Damian.

What in the world was he doing here?

She had not noticed his name on any of her onboarding paperwork. Under supervisor it had listed Dean Somers. There had been no word on the other teachers or faculty members. She probably could have looked on the school website—now she cursed herself for not checking. If she had known he would be here, she never would have come, even with the sizable bonus. Nothing was worth being here with him. Not all the money in the world.

That said, she was now trapped. She had come all the way here and it was too late to find another job this year, certainly not one as well-paid as this one. And there was no way she was going back to the one she had just left, nor was she going home to her parents, even though they would have her. No, she had no other options at this point. She was going to have to stay here. For the whole year. With Damian.

He was clearly a lead teacher now, if he’d been the one to greet all the other teachers. And he’s been here for ten years; of course he was a senior teacher. There was a tiny hope she’d be able to limit her interactions with him, but it really was tiny. He’d be her senior and the first person to go to about almost anything, rather than Dean Somers, who would be too busy dealing with other issues to bother. Even if he wasn’t officially in charge, he’d still hold sway over her role and be the person responsible for solving all but the most serious of her work-related problems. Which was the very last thing she wanted him to be. Even if he had been that once… someone she had trusted, someone who had known how to help her…

He wasn’t that any longer. Hadn’t been for a long time.

She could do her best to rely on other teachers, bypass Damian and go to the dean directly, and clearly that’s what she would be doing as much as she could. And then there would be only Drama month. He taught theater and she taught English. She knew that they would have to work closely together for at least a few weeks then, later in the year. Maybe a whole month. The thought alone nearly gave her hives. How had she lasted this long barely thinking about him, almost successfully pretending she had just imagined him, when now they would be partners on this crucial, intense project?

God, his eyes were as blue as she remembered. There was a reason she never looked at them directly. They were too clear, too seeing. Even before she’d forbidden herself from letting him see her, they’d been almost painfully intense. His solid body looked as strong as it ever had. She could still recall his easy swagger and the crook of his teasing grin. His hair was shorter, but still a beautiful golden blond… If not for the ever-so-faint lines at the corners of his eyes, he would have looked exactly the same as the man she’d known a decade ago, completely unchanged.

It was crazy that she was even thinking about this, wasn’t it? Damian belonged in the past. Sure, she thought about him now and then, but he existed only in her memories, and she knew that. He had existed in her memories for so long and she had built him up in her mind so much that the idea of him outweighed the reality of him. At this point, he may as well have been a mythical figure as far as she was concerned. It was like a character from her favorite book had suddenly stepped out of the pages and appeared in front of her. He didn’t belong in the here and now.

But here he was.

God, what he must think of her. Did he still think of her as a stupid kid? That would be fair, really; she had been a stupid kid when he’d known her. A stupid kid with stupid problems who had a stupid crush on her stupid teacher. It was no wonder—

She sighed.

Had he known she was coming? Or was her being here as much a surprise to him as it was to her?

God, he looked so good.

She didn’t know how to be around him. She couldn’t still act like that stupid kid. She was an adult now, 28, for God’s sake, not the teenager she’d been when he’d known her. Of course, she didn’t need to spend all her time around him. In fact, she didn’t think she could be blamed for continuing to avoid him, although she’d have to be cool about it. Don’t antagonize him, don’t snap at him; just take her space and give him his. That’s what people did when they weren’t bothered by each other. All avoidance would have to be casual.

Why did she want to avoid him, though? She checked in with herself. She didn’t have feelings for him; that wasn’t it. She wasn’t even sure she’d had real feelings for him back then. A crush wasn’t real feelings. He’d been nice to her and he’d made her laugh; it wasn’t surprising she’d felt the way she did. But now… it had been ten years and she hadn’t felt anything but anger towards him in a long time. At this point, it was just the shock of seeing him again that was bothering her. Being in the same room as him felt bizarre and unnatural and sent her into spiraling anxiety. She’d get used to it soon enough, his presence, but for now, it would do her good to keep her space from him. Even if she couldn’t exactly let him know his presence was affecting her.

She needed to be professional, and this was all a complication she couldn’t afford right now.

Polite avoidance would be all right. In fact, that was the professional way to handle this, wasn’t it? Colleagues who didn’t like each other did that; they maintained their distance when possible but were still courteous and polite when they couldn’t avoid it. Even though her heart had thundered in her chest as soon as she’d seen him—no, as soon as she’d realized she was really hearing his voice. Her breath had left her. She’d felt like she was on the verge of a panic attack. But she could ignore all that until it got better, until she got used to him.

She pulled out her phone, brought up her sister’s number, and tapped out a message: Oh my god oh my god Damian is here oh my god. Although her sister didn’t know the full story, Clara had mentioned him to her a few times over the years (although never by name), and Joanie would know how much this would wreck her.

Ten minutes later her phone buzzed with a return text: Facetime? And Clara couldn’t get her tablet open fast enough. Her body felt inexplicably lighter, a load of tension eased to see her sister’s gentle, smiling face on the screen.

God, Joanie, Clara said, sighing and lying back on the bed. The room was cold, empty; she stuck her nose into her shirt, and the lungful of familiar laundry detergent eased even more tension from her body. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see your face.

You’re not even looking at me.

Clara jerked her head up. Happy?

Immensely. What’s going on?

Clara grumbled unintelligibly.

Okay, Joanie said slowly. Well, I knew going back to Robinson was weighing on you… is it bad?

Clara blew a breath across her lips and sat up, leaning her head forward over her hands. Awful, she said from beneath her hair. She let out a humorless laugh. Just… really bad.

What’s so bad about it?

"I had been feeling really good about it, actually, she said. There was nobody here I would know except for the dean, and he obviously knows I’m capable. He’s the one who invited me. When Joanie nodded, Clara continued. But there’s somebody…"

When Clara left a pause, Joanie spoke up. Damian? Who is he, anyway?

Clara sighed. My last year here… do you remember me telling you about my teacher who I had kind of a crush on? she said hesitantly.

To her embarrassment, Joanie’s eyes widened in understanding and she shook her head in delighted disbelief. No… Clara nodded and a broad grin swept over Joanie’s face. Oh my God. The one you were a particular freak around?

I wasn’t—

Your words, not mine. Not that I believe that. But you never told me anything else.

Clara thought for a moment. She had told very few people about what had happened between herself and Damian. She didn’t know how it would be perceived—as a teenager with an innocent crush (the generous interpretation), or as a pathetically obsessed girl (her own view of it)? But Joanie was her sister and, throughout everything, had always seen her exactly how she wanted to be seen. I had a little bit of a crush on him, she said at last, slowly. Then, chuckling, she went on, I actually had a big crush on him. He was here, he was young, only a few years older than me, and he was just so nice. I mean, you know all the crap that was going on that year, between Jake and Paul and Mom and Dad, and after Blake… I was just a mess. But he always made me laugh when I was sad and it made me feel special. Safe.

Joanie nodded silently, waiting for her to continue. She was biting her lips as if forcing herself not to interrupt.

I mean, it wasn’t anything, really, Clara rushed to say. He was just nice to me, that was all. Maybe a little more than with other students, but it was all stuff like… he’d bring me a snack when he came back from a trip, or he’d make a joke or something like that. It just felt special, and I guess I just… I don’t know. But anyway, I did act like a freak about it, and I never thought I’d see him again, and now… She trailed off.

Joanie couldn’t conceal her broad grin. So how was it talking to him again?

Clara laughed dryly. Oh, I’m avoiding speaking to him. Just like always.

Wait, you didn’t speak to him when you were a student?

Oh, no, I did, but then… She shook her head. I was mad at him and we stopped talking. It was dumb. Even though it hadn’t felt dumb.

So why are you nervous about seeing him? Joanie paused. Do you still have feelings for him?

No, Clara said quickly. It’s just a big shock. And I’m annoyed because I just want to work and not think about anything else, but he’s here, and when he’s around I feel stupid and like I can’t do my job and like—what business do I have pretending I’m an adult who can teach children? I’m a messed-up moron and an impostor. A fake. She paused. I feel like just a kid again.

Clara, Joanie sighed. "We’ve talked about this before. You’re not a kid anymore, and nobody expects you to still act like one."

Clara bit her lip. I guess. I just don’t want to be around him. I just want to avoid him and get through the school year.

Joanie hesitated. But what if you didn’t avoid him? she said. Maybe it would do you good to learn how to let go of whatever happened with him. And forgive yourself. And figure out how to coexist with him.

Groaning, Clara leaned back. Probably. But she wasn’t sure if she could. She still couldn’t help but feel like an idiot and a child who didn’t deserve to try to mend things with him.

Joanie changed tacks. Have you heard from Victor lately?

Nope, she said, her heart sinking further. I don’t think I will.

Do you want to?

I don’t know. I mean, no, I definitely don’t want to hear from him. I guess it would be nice if he tried to get in touch with me, but I know it really wouldn’t make me feel better.

Why?

"Because there’s nothing that he can give me. Or nothing that he will give me. The things I would want… I would want him to not be with Elyse. I would want him to care about me again. I would want him to explain why he left at all, after everything I did for him. Not that I deserve for him to be with me, but I just don’t get it. I tried so hard to be a good girlfriend, to make him happy and to be selfless, and I just don’t understand what happened. But anyway, he won’t do any of that, so… She trailed off. Maybe she was in denial, but it was really hard to believe those words. Or rather, she did believe them in her head, but the upset she knew she should feel at them hadn’t quite hit her. It was like her feeling brain wouldn’t accept them, even if her thinking brain did. Anyway, I don’t have the space to think about that. I just want to think about work. I am actually looking forward to it. Students are arriving in a few days and then I can concentrate on that instead of this Damian crap or the Victor crap. I just want to do my job."

Good.

The blond man sat at the desk as the brunette girl neared it. He was a new person, different from the black-haired woman who had sat there before him.

She eyed him as she approached. You’re not Tammy, she said suspiciously.

He shook his head. Not last time I checked, he muttered, eyeing her back and gesturing towards the name placard at the front of his desk.

Damian, she read out, casting an appraising look at him. He had wavy blond hair and blue eyes, a straight nose, and a strong neck. I liked Tammy, she said, almost pouting. He assessed her right back. She was small, fidgety, her mousy hair short and wavy. She stared at him directly, unapologetically.

Well, he said, who knows? Maybe you’ll like me just as well. He raised an eyebrow at her.

She offered a challenging smile. I guess we’ll see, she said. My name’s Clara.

CHAPTER TWO

You're Good With Them

THE STUDENTS ARRIVED the following week.

Clara had survived three staff meetings by that point: one for all the junior teachers, one for the English department, and one for all staff and faculty as a whole. The first had been the hardest: her first work situation with Damian, her first time having to adopt a cool, professional demeanor that kept him at a distance while still being cordial. It had been short and straightforward, fortunately. Damian had laid out the routines at Robinson and what duties would be expected of them, and he’d had them each introduce themselves. There were eight junior teachers total, eight of them who’d spend half their time teaching and half acting as guardians to the students in their charge. There was one junior teacher per department, and each of them would be assigned to a residential floor to share with one other. Clara had been assigned to floor 3 along with Bonnie, the junior Biology teacher who had grown up in Canada. She had unfortunately been too preoccupied to remember much about the other teachers, but she was looking forward to getting to know them soon.

Her own department, the English department, was made up primarily of her and the senior English teacher, Ryan Carrick, who appeared to be roughly the same age as her. Dean Somers and the guidance counselor, John, had also attended that meeting, and they had spent the time going over the curriculum for the year. Clara was glad to realize that she worked well with Ryan, although she had been alarmed to hear that she would be given slightly more responsibility than a junior English teacher would normally have. She had protested weakly until Ryan and Somers had explained to her that her skills and background made her more than qualified to take on some senior teachers’ duties. (Dean Somers had told her later that the only reason she was a junior teacher and not a senior teacher was because of staffing needs, and if it were up to him, she would be a senior teacher anyway.) So she would help out more by working with seniors on college admissions essays. And since Clara did indeed have experience with that, she couldn’t really argue.

And now it was go time.

The students arrived this week, and with them they brought the chaos that Clara remembered. The kids and their families lined up messily at the front desk to get their room assignments and then made trips back and forth between their rooms and their cars, bringing all their things and cramming them inside. Parents argued with staff about things their kids should be allowed to keep,